


The Connect

by anonymousorly



Series: Connections are more than accurate passes [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Argentina National Team, Canon Compliant, Champions League, FC Barcelona, Juventus Turin, M/M, WCQ, hair strand angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 05:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: The problem Leo has with Paulo is his unfair beauty. Kid is a looker and the Italian sun accentuates everything. He had told Paulo from the get-go about Neymar, told him not to take his disinterest personal and that it would be better in the long run this way.





	The Connect

The problem Leo has with Paulo is his unfair beauty. Kid is a looker and the Italian sun accentuates everything. Consciously, he distances himself slightly and refuses complete cooperation during international duty because the kid would destroy him. He instead chooses to connect with Neymar, getting more time with the player and a _little bit_ more reimbursement from the club, but also because he didn't weaken as much.

Neymar captivates him differently (and less) than Paulo.

He had told Paulo from the get-go about Neymar, told him not to take his disinterest personal and that it would be better in the long run this way. Paulo took it very personal even years later, even in Italy at seeing Neymar’s face on the screen for the PSG conference.

Qualification training in early-August and right before Uruguay, Paulo says nothing. A scoreless draw and longer practice days, he says nothing. Drawing again but to the bottom of the table, he says something.

Sergio, walking in the hotel lobby alongside Leo and not in the best of moods, looks mildly annoyed at his eager presence and leaves both teammates behind to retreat in the elevator.

The only talk as they head towards the adjoining restaurant is a flat, “No,” from Leo.

“One goal on Venezuela isn't concerning to a captain?” Paulo challenges once seated and ordered, firm features churning a weight inside Leo's chest.

He rubs the side of his nose, eyes downcast. He physically can't handle the way Paulo’s sweaty blonde fringe hangs over his smooth forehead. “You think I'm unconcerned.” 

Paulo doesn't think that and Leo knows, so their silence allows time for them to progress. He wants to say, “We need one another,” has since Sunday, but he's played out the resulting conversation in his head which leads nowhere.

“We can be unstoppable,” he tries and Leo shifts in his chair. “We can take Ecuador and conquer Peru. We can go to Russia…and win.”

Mistakenly, Leo locks Paulo’s enchanting eyes and his head swims, agreeing, “We can,” as the waiter soundlessly brings their drinks and hors d'oeuvre. “We've time.”

Paulo furrows his effortlessly-clean brows and none of this, anything about him, is fair to Leo. “Not much. Three hours.” More unfair is the buzzing through his veins at the gentle whisper, “Please.”

All willpower is spent keeping his vision and mind clear, keeping his arms from reaching out, keeping his damn sanity. He wants so bad to indulge, fall victim to the destruction of Paulo, at last connect. He repeats, “No,” and no more is spoken.

The following week reunites them as competitors. Lionel Messi doesn't need to prove anything to anyone yet he wants to prove his point to Paulo; that they don't require a connection to succeed. He says so as they embrace prior to entering the pitch and Mira watches carefully from behind.

He proves his point, in his unbiased opinion, by final whistle but isn't prepared for Paulo’s counter.

“Of course you succeeded.” They stand near the tunnel exit between opposing team locker rooms, duffles on their shoulders and squads gone. It's not the match they're talking about. “But I didn't. Not last week, not today.”

Paulo licks his soft lips, blinks long lashes, just fucking exists, and Leo crumbles, officially concedes. In order for Argentina to succeed, Paulo must succeed…must connect with him. With Neymar out of the picture, he had no reason to resist any longer; destruction and weakness be damned.

“I-I’m powerless to you. Do you understand?” He brushes that godforsaken fringe and the bastard closes his eyes, gorgeously relaxed in acceptance of the touch. “You're my weakness, you're…special. Very special.”

“You wanted Neymar,” it's a declaration, not insecurity or jealousy, “you gave _us_ up, your country, for Neymar.”

“It…was never personal, Paulo. Never.” He swallows hard, admits with faces close, “You're magic. You're not him.”

“And is that okay?” His heart pounds and Leo shivers. “Are you okay that I'm not him?”

“You aren't meant to be.” He puts his hands ( _finally_ ) on that beautiful face, those youthful cheeks, cupping around those dark lips…and it's still not fucking fair. The warm breath right before they kiss makes his cock twitch and he murmurs, “He's not _us_. He's not you.”


End file.
